


Five Hundred Words

by dovahgriin



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Body Worship, Christmas Fluff, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, F/M, Gift Giving, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, no beta we die like men, no y/n, plus size reader, stretch marks!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 07:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17076419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovahgriin/pseuds/dovahgriin
Summary: An exercise infutilityshort, sweet and succinct. Success is not a guarantee. Tags/relationships will be addded as required.





	1. Peter Parker

“Peter. Peter, c’mon, wake up.” You shake your fiancé’s shoulder gently, whispering in his ear. Snow flurries blow past your bedroom window. “Peter Parker, wake up this instant.”

  
You must be channeling the spirit of May Parker or _something,_  because Peter’s eyes fly open. He scrambles to sit up, knocking you off of the bed and onto your ass. “‘M up, ’m up! Where’s the fire?”

  
“There’s no fire, you goof. It’s Christmas! Santa broke in last night and left gifts. Come on.” You allow him to pull you to your feet, and then you’re the one pulling him through the hallway to the living room. The basalm fir tree stands tall to the left of the giant bay window, and the ornaments you’d painstakingly hung earlier this week glitter in the morning light, much like the snow outside. Peter sucks in a breath at the sheer amount of wrapped presents under the tree.

  
“Babe, we talked about gifts...” he carries a warning in his voice, and you hurry to explain.

  
“Peter, wait! It’s not as much as it looks like.” You pause, a rueful smile crinkling your eyes. “Well, maybe it is. But it’s not entirely my fault. Sort of. I, uh, did a really, really generously-priced commission, and I thought I could, you know, make our first Christmas in our own place memorable. Most of the packages are socks, anyways.” That’s a lie. “You have so many holey socks, it’s a travesty.” That is not a lie. Peter’s socks always have holes in them and you’re tired of darning them. He needs new socks.

  
Peter sighs, but he doesn’t get the pinched-brow that appears when he’s truly annoyed. You relax, shoulders slumping.

  
“All right, all right. You really didn’t have to do this, you know.”

  
“Yeah, I know. But I wanted to, so... yeah.” You push on his shoulders, forcing him to sink down onto the couch. “You stay right here, Mister Parker. I’ve got cocoa in the kitchen.”

  
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Peter salutes, leaning back against the cushions. You give him a thumbs up before you slid across the wooden floor into the kitchenette. As you’d told Peter, there’s a mug of hot chocolate on the counter beside the stove. You tuck the ends of your sleeves around your hands and pick up the cup, sneaking a sip as you bring it back to Peter.

  
He thanks you with a smile, trading you a small package for the sweet drink. You raise an eyebrow. “What’s this, Peter?”

He just shrugs unhelpfully. “Something small for you, that’s all. Open it.”

  
Eyeing him suspiciously the whole while, you unwrap the bag in record time. You open it, covering your mouth with one hand when you see what is inside of it. A woven silver chain rests against the velvety fabric, glinting like ice in the sun. “Oh my god. When did you have the time to get this?”

  
Peter just shrugs again and smiles, reaching over to slip the bracelet around your wrist.


	2. Clint Barton

Tiger stripes, Clint calls them, the stretch marks that streak your skin. Evidence of how you’ve changed, grown as a person. The  ones on the sides of your breasts are soft like your favorite nightgown, old and a little worn. The newer, shinier ones over your ribcage are risen beneath your fingers, fading from red to pink over the course of months. 

  
He kisses them (when you let him), brushing his nose over your skin as he traces patterns that only he can see. It always tickles, and you squirm, laughing and pushing half-heartedly at his broad shoulders.He just smiles against your body’s scars and shakes his head. Clint calls you beautiful, and you blush every time without fail. That’s kind of why he does it.

  
(That, and he thinks you look incredibly attractive when your eyes how wide and dewy, like you can’t believe that someone — _he_ — finds you beautiful. Because you are beautiful. Truly.)

  
When he comes home from work at the end of the day, you’re always there to greet him, a smile on your face and your arms open, ready to wrap around him and plant a kiss on his cheek. (It’s Clint’s favorite part of the day, coming home to you. His world is so full of blood and violence and your presence in his life is a soothing balm to the ache in his heart late at night.) He never fails in his habit of swinging you around like you weigh nothing in his arms, and you always relish the feeling of weightlessness.

  
(Is this what astronauts feel like? You think that it must be pretty damn close.)

  
Clint whispers ‘I love you’s against your neck at night, when there’s nothing but you and him in the world, promising you everything if you just love him back. (You do.) You gasp out your own declarations as he worships you, reverent, like you’re a goddess among women. (You’re mortal and full of flaw, but that doesn’t stop him from looking at you like you’re Aphrodite.)

  
His hands feel like fire in your skin.

  
It hurts when he has to leave, but he’s a hero, and heroes fight for people like you, for normal people, for the people who can’t fight for themselves. He always comes back, though, and you’ll always be there to hold him close. 


End file.
